


Kindling

by paperknives



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperknives/pseuds/paperknives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stave off the sunken chill, shake loose the bones encased in hoar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindling

**Author's Note:**

> Several apologies. First that it took so long, second that it's so poorly done, third that I've subjected you to it.  
> To ask me kindly to go to hell, contact jotunscum.tumblr.com

The winters of London are far removed from the temperate doldrums of Chris' youth. In the beautiful city, even as the heated flush of exertion warms his skin beneath his scaled armor, a vicious chill penetrates him, forgoing flesh and seeming to sink teeth into the very marrow of his bones.

His costume, ornate, with the onscreen ability to seemingly deflect all, has met it's match in the cruel winds of an English November. Hemsworth swaddles himself in a thick parka during downtimes, and when the opportunity is at hand, he pushes his action to the limit, relishing the way his own muscles begin to spaceheat. After a few short weeks of adjustment,Chris believes he's found his equilibrium.

And then, just as Hemsworth has shaken the ache from his bones, frost himself arrives on set, clad in a dashing blue jacket and a beaming smile that makes a dripping icicle of Chris's cool.

Tom is the warm breeze in the tail of the fall that makes you acutely aware of just how cold you actually are. A sharp reminder that there is a missing sensation. Chris aches to soothe his wanting, to ease the heat back into his skeleton.

Chris needn't wait too terribly long as he finds himself, the very next day, at the mercy of Hiddleston within his own trailer. An arm sneaks around his waist, pulling him flush, as its accomplice inches up to admire the handiwork of his hair stylist.

"Very fetching on you," Tom murmurs against the reddened shell of Chris' ear, "You look every inch a king." Hemsworth's scalp tingles, a heady rush of sensation trailing out from the epicenter where elegant fingers had tangled and pulled the fine braids gently.

Chris' hands find their way to the hips they've meticulously mapped on more than one occasion, and they settle there, as natural as the shift of two pairs of wind-chapped lips against each other. They know their rhythm, fall back into it with a grace reserved for ballroom dancers and skilled liars.

It is the sound of production continuing around them, bleeding through the trailer's thin walls like an unwelcome draft, that halts them. Tom is wrapped obscenely around Chris' waist, his hands still clutching handfuls of groomed silk.

"I'm not-" Tom mumbles, "I'm not gonna fuck you in this trailer." Hemsworth understands that such a mistake is one only made once, but the material of his trousers is unforgiving and there are a number of things he'd give for a different circumstance. Tom knows it too, can feel the tight-wound tension, the collared anticipation straining them both. He almost succumbs to regret when he peels himself off the other man. The answering groan doesn't help.

Hiddleston presses a hand over Chris' protesting mouth as he slips a knee between his legs and rocks into him . Filming will wrap late, and there is a near guarantee that Chris will be exhausted, but sleepy sex is still good sex, so Tom whispers an invitation against his throat and smiles, pulling away.

"I'll be there," Chris promises, his voice already gruff with desire that will find no outlet with Tom at the moment. He presses another kiss, this one far more chaste, to Tom's lips before watching him slip out the door and stride away. Hemsworth finds relief in his own hand, far too aroused to return to work without it.

~

It's nearly one in the morning when Chris slips through the front door. There is spiced wine at Tom's, and though the place doesn't feel lived in, as there's rarely anyone home, it does have a homey coziness to it that only serves to droop Chris' eyelids lower and lower as he sinks into the couch. He feels his glass being slipped from his hand, and the clink of it on the coffee table just pushes through the fog in his mind before he's being pulled to his feet and guided down a hall.

Hiddleston undresses him quietly, kissing him softly on occasion, all of the urgency that charged the air in the trailer faded into near nothing. He revels in taking care of Chris, in making sure he actually gets sleep so that the lines around his eyes will lessen, and his shoulders won't look quite so burdened. He pushes Hemsworth onto the bed, lavishing a last, long slow kiss on him before walking around and crawling into bed behind him. They twine together in the warm, dark room, finding sleep at the bottom of a piled drift of blankets.

~

Chris wakes first in the morning, the light of day pushing through the window to lay across his eyelids. He can feel Tom, pressed against him, his arousal against the curve of Hemsworth's own ass, and he cracks a crooked smile as he presses back.

"Mmm g'morning," Tom mumbles, slipping a hand into Chris' boxers to knead the flesh there. "Sleep well?"

"Very," comes the yawned reply, "but I believe I was promised more than a night's sleep, Mr. Hiddleston." Chris hears a laugh and finds himself rolled onto his back, and pinned to the mattress.

"Don't tell me you didn't come visit merely for my hospitality," Tom jokes, even between placing bites along the base of Chris' throat. He knows exactly what flesh will be covered by the collar of his costume, and is very careful to only mark that which can be hidden. His ministrations with lips, tongue and teeth have his victim writhing, bunching the sheets in a frustrated struggle for more. More everything, more mouth, more skin underneath his palms, more friction against his filling cock. "Patience," Hiddleston chides, unstraddling Chris and crawling to the edge of the bed to snatch from the nightstand a small bottle and a foil square.

His fingers are unceremonious, slick and dextrous, delving into the tight heat and working Hemsworth open. With each twist and stretch, every shift of muscle, Chris can feel the long-seated ice that's twined into his center begin to melt and seep away, like snow in the spring dawn.

When he's stretched open, a low whine building in his throat, Tom ceases, sliding his fingers out and slipping off Hemsworth's boxers. He palms the heavy curve of Chris' cock, weighted against the plane of his stomach with its want. The minute shift of his hipbones under skin as he arches into the touch is stunning. Tom's own boxers soon follow Chris' to the floor, and he rolls the condom on with haste.

Chris is near boneless, so easily moved into just the right position that Tom can hit home with nearly every thrust, and he makes noises that Hiddleston will revel in for days. Throaty utterances that build into pleas that build into cries as he spills onto the fine weave of the sheets. Tom follows shortly, the clench and tense of Hemsworth pulling everything from him.

They stay, both slumping into the sheets to sleep just a bit more before the wind comes breaking in again to rush them off. It's a blessed rest, this time warmed by the kindling alit once more between them, something they'll continue to fan as long as they can draw out the time together.


End file.
